by Andy Remic
“Another day,” he growled. “Another day and we’ll crush you.”
Back in the trench, Rex strode towards the major’s shelter, ducking through communication trenches and stamping across sodden, slippery duckboards. His breastplate was spattered with mud and blood, and so, spitting on the cuff of his shirt, he quickly polished the metal and then climbed down a ladder towards the secure shelter; he knocked on the thick wooden door and was bade enter.
He ducked inside and saluted.
“At ease, sergeant,” said Major Tel-Helbert with a smile, and seated himself at a stained desk spread with detailed maps and a lantern which burned with a low, steady glow.
“Major.”
“One of the prisoners has finally cracked under torture. He has explained the principle behind making these mortar weapons, and their similarities to the Femor rifle are now apparent. But these shells, made from metal, are a new thing to our engineers . . . We need to capture weapons! We need better samples!”
“Sir, with all due respect, the enemy sees us coming. They know the implications of these weapons falling into our hands . . . They know that we strive to imitate these great weapons of destruction, and once that occurs, we will sweep them aside like a scythe through corn.”
The major started to speak, but suddenly, men started to scream in the trenches. Rex cursed; gas rattles echoed loud in the air and the sergeant climbed the ladder from the shelter and pulled out his gas mask, fitting it expertly into place and gazing out on a green glass world.
Several men were choking to his left, but he ignored them; he ran through the trench, aware that the enemy would be launching an offensive under cover of gas—chlorine this time—and he would have to be ready with his riflemen or their trench would be taken, the front pushed back, the position lost . . .
A man sat by the edge of the dugout when the gas attack came. Calmly, he pulled on his mask and continued to pen the poem before him. Words flowed into his mind, words of gas and images of being under the sea, under the greatest ocean, of corpses coughing up vomit and blood and being thrown onto the back of cart dragged by screaming, blood-speckled horses . . . and then Rex was there, and the man’s poem was cast aside, lost, trampled in mud under heavy boots as men grabbed rifles and checked magazines and climbed ladders to thunder bullets into the advancing, ragged enemy infantry. Screams echoed forever, and the fighting was fierce, intense, and over quickly. The Femors retreated, having made no gains and suffering heavy losses.
After the gas had dispersed, Rex sat in his dugout with his rifle on his lap, rubbing at the metal, which had turned green due to the effects of the chlorine. After cleaning his weapon, his lifeblood, he rubbed at the buttons of his tunic and finally his breast plate and tarnished helm. The gas poisoned everything it ——ing touched . . .
“Sergeant Rex!”
Rex climbed from the dugout and followed the messenger to a large chamber supported by thick wooden beams. He smiled when he saw the two prisoners kneeling on the ground, their faces white, eyes wide, full of fear.
Rex pushed a thumb behind one brace and, taking a rifle from a soldier guarding the door, strode towards the prisoners.
“Some of our brave lads dragged them in by the scruff, sir,” said one soldier, a young lance corporal with short black hair. “The major said for you to interrogate them. He said he wants answers.”
“Don’t we all, lad?” said Rex with a smile, and hammered the butt of his rifle into one man’s face with a sharp downward stroke; the man hit the ground on his chin and blood dribbled from his broken jaw as he was hoisted back to his knees and held tight.
“What’s the matter? Can’t talk?” said Rex, and kicked the soldier in the groin, his heavy boot connecting with a thump. “I want to know about troop movements behind your lines. Are you listening to me?” He grabbed the soldier’s hair, hoisting his blood-smeared face level and staring into eyes defiant and filled with hate.
The man spoke, words spat with pain and blood. “Go —— yourself, sergeant.”
Rex laughed, head lifting and eyes closing as his rich voice boomed mirth towards the ceiling, then the barrel of his rifle touched the man’s chin, and the bullet punched a hole through the front of the young soldier’s face. Blood sprayed across the wall. Bone shards pattered on the ground like dice. The dead man collapsed in a heap, and Rex wiped chips of bone and blood from his boot onto the corpse’s coat. He turned to the remaining prisoner. “Your turn, lad.”
“I . . . I will tell you . . .”
“Yes,” smiled Rex, taking a firm hold of his commandeered rifle. He smashed the butt against the soldier’s nose and watched as blood formed a pool on the ground. “You will tell me everything now.”
Crying, the soldier began to talk.
Diary of Robert Jones. 3rd Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers. 5th. November 1917.
We are high in the mountains and snow is falling. We risked building a fire; Bainbridge and Webb tell me that the Naravelles have fallen behind, and so the pressure is off—at least for the time being. We made a thick porridge from oats found on the dead villagers back in the woods, but it was very satisfying. When the opportunity of meat—fresh meat—presented itself, I did not dare let it pass.
Orana, with her melodious voice, managed to coax the wolf close so that I would not miss. I was aiming for the chest, but the cold and my shivering fingers spoilt my aim and the bullet entered just below the wolf’s right eye. I have never skinned or prepared an animal before, for in days past, I simply visited the butcher or did without. Orana was expert with a knife, and she hurriedly slit the wolf’s throat and allowed blood to stain the snow and slick dark rocks.
We dragged the beast back to our fire and Orana skinned the wolf, cutting away fat and the legs and head. She quartered the torso and cut away chunks of rib and flank and breast which we staked out over the fire. With bloodied fingers she removed the heart, kidneys, and liver (which, I admit, looked totally disgusting and I initially did not want to touch) along with the thymus. The brain had been ruined by my bullet, and so we buried it with the head and legs in a shallow grave which I marked with rocks.
The flesh was darker than meat I am used to, and the wolf had been rather a thin mutt; despite that, I found it enjoyable and it was a very pleasant change from eating oats and thin soup and scavenged morsels. Orana used my tin plate as a frying pan, and slicing the liver, she fried it in fat cut from the wolf’s body, and I have never enjoyed liver so much! I settled down to rest with a full belly, and I was warm and content for the first time in days.
Orana showed she was more in tune with living in the wild than I; during our period of rest, she stretched out the skin and dried it after scraping away fat with my knife. Then she cut the dried fur and fashioned a rudimentary jerkin which she stitched using my needle and thread plucked from my coat’s inner lining. She presented it to me as a gift, and I accepted—I wear it now over my shirt. It’s incredibly warm. The remaining useful meat Orana wrapped in cloth and tied with thick string; she stowed it in the canvas bag which had held the bread, and assured me it would be many days before the meat went bad.
We stayed overlong at our campsite, but we were exhausted and the food and rest did us good. Bainbridge and Webb promised to act as lookout and we got a reasonable sleep, although Orana awoke several times clutching me so tight I wanted to cry out. I soothed her with words and stroked her hair and she smelled so fine . . . but I could remember her tale of being captured by soldiers, and this corrupted any lust which might have boiled within me.
I know I was never an angel before, and Bainbridge constantly reminds me of a time when whiskey and whores were a way of life—but those days seem—are—a lifetime away, distant, fading fast before the need to survive in this strange new world. I am ashamed of my past and my present. I am deeply confused.
The weather has taken a turn for the worse; I only hope we clear the mountains before the paths become totally blocked. We have already had to fight our way
through high drifts of snow, and at the moment, the priority fear is snow and a cold, slow death. Even the walriders and Naravelles seem far away—and at least my one consolation is that tonight they will be as cold as I. The bastards.
The fire is burning low and we have almost run out of fuel. I will cease writing now because my hands shake too much. I will try and get some sleep. I will need all my energy for tomorrow and the battles to come.
The Naravelle Offensive: Battle of Talen Ridge (7th. Battle of). “Aftermath.” 5th. November 1917.
BULLETS SCREAMED FIRE THROUGH mud and wood and flesh, and great tanks rumbled across the battlefield, great tanks carved from hardwood and heartwood. Guns boomed and smoke flowered, and all of creation had become death and carnage. Fifty units of infantry advanced behind the thick grain-polished hulls of the tanks, using these great beasts as cover. Men breathed choking fumes and poisons, and ran with rifles held in sweat-slippery hands, faces taut, white, like ghosts . . .
Sergeants yelled orders, men knelt, fired at the ridge, at the trenches; enemy soldiers were punched backwards clawing faces and necks holed and pouring filth; Femor soldiers churned from enemy trenches and men drew swords and fired rifles and clashed together in a giant seething mass of warring men, warring brothers. Bodies pressed together and men screamed and men stabbed, and all was a shivering, smoke-filled chaos.
Rex stumbled through the midst, a deep gash open across his forehead and blood pouring down his face, stinging his eyes. A bullet smashed into his shoulder and he was catapulted backwards, twisting like an acrobat, and hit the ground hard, and rolled away from the advancing tracks of a gleaming hardwood tank.
Pain hammered through his body and he gritted his teeth and, reaching up, carefully probed the wound. The bullet had flattened on impact, punched a wide hole towards his shoulder, and split—splinters of wood ricocheting inwards towards his ribs. Barbs of shattered wood stuck from his flesh like the protective spikes of a porcupine. Rex pulled several clear, but his fingers were slippery with blood, and grasping his rifle, he levered himself to his feet and surged onwards once more, a cog in the war machine of attacking infantry. His boots sank in mud, up to his ankles, and he struggled on, cursing. His rifle became clogged, useless. He let it fall and dragged clear a broad-bladed knife for close-quarters fighting. An enemy attacked through the smoke, black teeth bared, and Rex stabbed him through the chest and wrenched his knife free. Another dived at him, and the wound in his shoulder exploded with pain. Through a haze of red, he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, and rolled free of the corpse, covered in oceans of his own blood and that of the enemy.
Bugles sounded, distant wails.
Men screamed, men cheered.
They had taken the ridge!
Rex coughed, crawled to his knees, and squinted at the wound in his shoulder. Blood oozed under his coat and plated mail armour, and with head spinning, he gazed around for a stretcher-bearer.
The enemy trench had been taken with a loss of many thousands of men. The remaining Femor soldiers had fled, and hundreds of mortars and mortar bombs had been seized, useful blueprints for advancements in the war. Prisoners had been taken but were soon dispatched by firing squad and buried at one end of the Femor trench in a mass grave.
Rex, his shoulder bound tight, stalked across the battlefield, anger heavy in his mind, shoulder filling him with icy pain. He carried a fresh rifle, and occasionally, when he came upon a wounded soldier—be he Femor, Naravelle, or Tonrothir stock—the rifle cracked and Rex strode on.
The sergeant was thinking hard, trying to think past the pain which screamed in his brain, trying to focus. They had taken Talen Ridge, had captured mortar weapons, the essence of Femor resistance and continued stronghold; now the tables of war would swiftly turn and Narava would become strong, would become victorious!
A man groaned, squirming in agony in the mud, his uniform so stained it was not clear which army he belonged to. Rex wheeled, rifle coming up. The soldier lay curled in a ball, coughing, and with a grunt, Rex operated the bolt on his rifle.
The man’s eyes snapped up, full of pain and fear. “Don’t shoot!” he croaked.
Rex glared. “Why should I not? You will be dead by nightfall. Why not end your life now?”
“Please, no . . .” The man, with supreme effort, forced himself to hands and knees, started to crawl away.
Rex followed, stubborn, angered, his eyes burning like coals. “Stop! Stop there, bastard.”
The man halted his feeble crawl, tried to turn but toppled into the mud, his face pushing into slopping dirt. He rolled to his side and looked up at the towering sergeant.
“I have a wife, young children. Please don’t kill me. I wish to see them one last time; I want to hold them, to love them.” The man started to cry, and Rex saw the gaping wound in his belly, witnessed one hand plugging his own intestines, bulging between mud and blood.
“Help me live,” groaned the soldier.
“Tell me where you live,” said Rex suddenly, barrel of his rifle coming to rest against the man’s cheek. The skin formed a white circle under pressure. “I will have your body returned to your family. You are a peasant, from the mountains? I can see you are.”
“I . . . My name is Brefni,” said the man. He started coughing, and coughed up blood. He tried to squirm away from the rifle, but Rex pushed hard and deep. The man gave directions to his home through his sobs, and Rex could see he was mad with pain, mad with grief, mad with fear . . . Brefni gave directions to his farm and described his wife and children.
Rex knelt by his side, mouth a grim line. Brefni started to cough again, blood bubbling at his lips. Rex pulled his rifle’s trigger and watched the man’s head mushroom outwards, brain and skull merging with the mud, with the earth. Rex jumped as a voice said from behind, “What are you going to do now?”
Rex turned, and frowned. “Yes?”
“You will return his body? You will keep your promise to him? His directions . . . He is one of the enemy.”
Rex eyed the officer with a cool stare. “Yes.” He smiled and stood, shifting his strapped shoulder. “I will return the body in person.” He called to a few soldiers digging a burial trench, and had them wrap Brefni in an old, mould-ridden blanket. Then he had the body carried back to his dugout. Something about the man had intrigued Rex—and something had disturbed him.
Two days after the capture of Talen Ridge, orders were relayed back to Narava and a vast array of old cotton mills were reopened, chains split with hammers and great doors pushed wide allowing fresh air to flood dark, stale interiors. Blueprints came, benches were erected, and engineers began their work. Women and older children were drafted in from Naravelle city-states, and these went to work making new mortar bombs and shells from wood and metal. Woodcutters and metal workers were in strong demand, and production of bullets and tanks became secondary behind this priority order for a terrible and wonderful weapon. The new “bombs” became notorious for their instability and dangerous temperament. In a factory, a nine-year-old boy had his face literally blown apart when a faulty fuse ignited the half-packed casing. His body was dragged to the edge of the work area by armed guards, and production went on as usual until dusk, when the boy’s mother was sent for and his corpse allowed to be cleared. Another woman had her hand detonated whilst packing bombs into wooden crates for shipment to the front lines. And seven officers were sent hurtling against the factory walls, their limbs and skulls crushed and their blood raining down on sawdust floors when a chain of bombs detonated next to their workstation.
But nothing was allowed to stand in the way of production.
Nothing could stand in the way of progress.
Hurt World. “Yellow Pass.” 6th. November 1917.
THE WEATHER WAS A creature of madness. A bitter chill wind howled up from the depths of the pass, and the clouds began parting with a light fall of snow. Jones and Orana continued up, up, into the higher reaches of the mountains, following narrow rocky trails and
scrambling over slopes of loose rock and slate, struggling to breathe with constant exertion.
Just before visibility became blurred, Jones saw in the far distance the men who followed them—hunted them. Soldiers in black-and-brown garb, bearing rifles and swords, wearing helmets and dark armour. There were two walriders with the unit, their whirling and cavorting seeming to never cease as claws gouged rocks and churned mud and snow, and their faces dipped and pressed to the ground, sniffing, following Jones’s scent.
They found a cave as the snowfall grew heavy, and they camped down for a couple of hours and built a small fire. There was no use trying to hide. Survival was now the name of the game.
Orana made a thick stew using some of the wrapped wolf meat and adding salt, and they ate the slightly bitter food in silence, watching the patch of white outside the cave and hoping and praying they would not be stumbled upon, hoping and praying the snow would slow down their pursuers and drive them to seek shelter.
“I am cold to my very bones,” said Orana finally after they had eaten, and for a while, they sat before the small fire in one another’s arms, tried to absorb what little heat they could. When the fire burned low, Jones refused to add more of their small kindling supply. He had a terrible feeling they would have more desperate need later.
Jones rested his chin against Orana’s head and could once more smell her wildness.
He thought back to all the things that had happened, from the gas attack in the French trenches, his confusing arrival in the woods, the battle with walriders and his stumbling across the castle which, the more he considered, seemed just too convenient, too neat—like the puzzle pieces of a perfect jigsaw had clipped firmly into place. But life was never like that, never neat, never rounded to perfection . . . In reality, there should have been no useful sanctuary just waiting for him. The walriders should have caught him in the open and slaughtered him.
